


Doubly Bound

by pettiot



Series: Dragon Age II Kinkmeme [10]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Journalling, M/M, Memory Loss, Slavery, background captive anders, the tevinter dystopia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:35:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22677247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Danarius has a problem with Fenris jerking off: he owns all of his lyrium-imbued slave, even his come.
Relationships: Danarius/Fenris
Series: Dragon Age II Kinkmeme [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619464
Kudos: 1





	Doubly Bound

I took everything from him and still his wastefulness persists. I do not know what else I can take. I had him on his knees beneath the eyes of the household, confiscating his belongings, his privileges, categorically reading out the list of all he has been reduced to, an adult who once bore my safety as a responsibility, given rights as high as a citizen of the Imperium, stripped to little more than a dependent child less than the lowest of slaves. I watched him struggle again with having to beg for his food, for a plate to put his food upon, gifts from all those slaves he shunned and ignored from his once-lofty position. He eats with his hands now, and drinks from the pump in the earliest hours when none will see him so reduced but for me from my study, gazing into the moonlit courtyard, always drawn by his lyrium gift moving through my warded territory. I stripped him of his room and bed as well, and he hunts for doorways and couches to sleep where the other slaves will not take their petty vengeance upon him; I think often he does not sleep.

Still, still his wastefulness persists across these thick stone walls, every chance he gets he plays his paltry game of freedom with my precious resource, until I must take even the clothes from his back, his cherished blade, to leave him naked and struggling in my defence. He did not lift his forehead from the carpet even through that humiliation, did not weep, but his shoulders shook.

'I am sorry my self control fails. I will try harder to-- to--;'

But without his past he is again a child, he does not know what he does is wrong except that he displeases me. I comforted him with my hand. 'It is enough you are willing to try.'

'I am willing, master.' His eyes beseeched me not to leave him behind, whatever the visible state of his shame.

Bare but for his pale breechcloth and leggings under, he defends me with his naked hands and the terror of his presence all the better than with his blade. Now he looks the berserker he is, and for all the enjoyable juxtaposition of tailored armour with the wildness of his form, his nudity shocks my fellow magisters, prim educated citizens. They should not even acknowledge his presence, but they continue to break protocol and stare, which pleases me, both my enemies without balance and knowing their eyes map the nerve paths his wealth of lyrium shows, the important bones and key veins, his vulnerabilities turned into strengths. The first time I am attacked he phases, the brilliance of his bare form shocking and wonderful. To see how he relishes the power I have given him is a thrill, too, that he teases out the killing, letting his hands invade as though he has the right to possess these mages who seek to destroy and humiliate me. I encourage him to bind mementoes of their murders into his hair, the braids and knotting of which his people are so fond, for tradition's sake. He and I will start a new tradition: the magisters of Tevinter will be compelled to terror at the sound of a bare shimmer of the rings in his hair, chiming against the other. Every twist of his muscle, every invasion of his hand through their pathetic flesh proclaims he is all mine.

The last contender for my estate was not alone; my lyrium ghost terrified the mob into loss of control, their magic and shades and demons falling before him once, my own barrier undisturbed even by the flick of blood. After the death of their ringleader, he licked his hand so casually it was exquisite, slick and shining with the gore of the deceased. Even as I flamed the corpse to prevent its future use against me, I saw his action and hungered. His teeth were white, the glint of blood red, and whatever desperate, practical starvation had him hunger for their gore he saw the collective shiver chase through my surrendered opponents now my slaves, and as slaves now below even him; he smiled at them and me, slow and dire.

Perhaps it was the most recent display of his success which drew me to him last night, when I had not indulged since his reclamation. He slept in a storeroom beneath the manse all full of dust and his footprints, himself huddled and shivering upon the bare stone.

'Master?'

'To my room.'

He did not walk in front of me, so silent at my shoulder I resisted the urge to check for his presence.

I told him perhaps this would end his wastefulness, to remember that all of him was mine, from action to thought to continued exhaled breath. I told him that if punishment did not work to aid him with his control, perhaps privilege would: that the anteroom would hold him after, spent but for once not wasted, close enough I would feel if he sought to spill that resource which was mine. I told him, but did not convince myself of my reasons; my mouth was full of my desperation.

He thanked me for the privilege, grave and low, bending to assist me with the arrangement of my robes. His hands were brisk and competent through the towel's shroud, easing my thighs to best advantage while exposing no more of me than necessary. His blood more the elf than mine, yet sheathed beneath the breechcloth he parted but not for so long; despite myself I tensed at the first brush of his bared flesh, suppressing the human part of me which feared his hidden unexpected length. But my innocent never suspects this act ought but a mechanical function; he was good that night, the same practiced touches easing my defence.

I had not forgotten the surprise and the power his slow lyrium poisoning could give, for the substance infused his blood, his skin, his semen and saliva, all thick and strong with the decaying power. But in his absence I had displaced the memory, through his troubled times after reclamation I pushed away the need. Lyrium adds to a mage's power, but I am not an addict, and I do not often indulge of him this way lest the loss of one control lead to the loss of the other. I am stronger than the voices of demons.

The indignity of penetration, akin to the cut of a blade across my palm: all indignities could be borne for what power would follow. There was pleasure as well in his soft sounds stifled, for he had always sought to hide from me how willing he was at any task to which I put him; his delight came in knowing himself, proving himself the _best_. For however long he took to reach his completion, I coaxed him with soft word and at last command, all the time longing for the impossible, brilliant pulse as he spilled inside me. It is an ecstasy I do not think any other mage has known. How could they? There is only one of him, and he is mine, however so I provoked the Champion that day I won my best beloved back.

'I am, master, I'm--' His stuttering was tense, almost desperate. He does not resent me; ah, but he never had.

His length at last unsheathed and rutted into me with short, painful motion, the thickness at the base intolerable and necessary, for what gain is there ever without the necessary being done? He was within for all the pain, he was _mine_ , all his life and fluid and lyrium spilling in a ceaseless, hot rush, my stomach protesting as he filled me, slow at first then a rush so scalding. It had been so long I could not withhold from a sound, too surprised for my liking, but oh -- what swelled inside me was different from before he left, be it the flaw of mine aging memory or that the lyrium poisoning was stronger in him now. 

I did not let myself struggle against him in all the long, painful minutes time it took for him to unburden, even after the barrier between discomfort and pleasure was shattered, my belly straining against a cinched belt and a constant, low moan forced from my throat. For there was no way back once he had begun, not without true torment and waste. The shiver and jerk of his thighs against mine slowly ceased, his head bowing, until all I could hear was the lyrium power singing in my ears, through me.

He withdrew gently, and did not sheath himself as he tended to me with the efficiency I had come to expect, removing his sweat from the bare places where his moments of broken control had him press against me. I instructed him briskly that I would hold it the longer, the power still aflame in my veins and the pressure against my belly just enough of the physical that I did not surrender entirely to the call. Those deadly hands always veiled by the towel, by my authority, he tended with my retainer pushed so easily into the path he had broached and seated secure, his eyes averted. 

He moved my robe to cover me again, and eased me into a position of both ease and discomfort. For I could not contest now that my body warred against the mind, the physical sensation of sickness and fullness and _want_ overwhelming. An embarrassment, that after all this time without I should feel again the urge to orgasm myself, so long since I had even cared for the physical.

As for him, breechcloth still parted, what lay beneath exposed. That my mouth watered uncontrollably, I cannot contest, the thick shining length of him so bright and flushed against his darkness and yet to retreat to its appropriate place, for all its use now expended; did he flaunt himself to mock me, that I wanted him so? I had crossed the world for him, and he mocked me for my care. I turned my face away and expressed my displeasure with him. 

'--Master?'

'Take yourself elsewhere, I will not have you near tonight.'

He made no protest but one sharply drawn breath, shaking with tiredness and disappointment: that tone I only used when he had failed. 

But what I sought to prove, I failed also. He is still wasteful, he is still wanton, now with those slaves who let him approach as well as with himself, as if my taking of him had given him the key to what I wanted from him, until I rage and revolt at the thought of a slave holding inside them the power and preciousness that is rightfully mine; what demon of pride took him and taught him this game in his time away I will bind, humble and kill.

I call him to me more and more, and his eyes glow smug with knowing.

  


* * *

  


Blood is important to me. Yet he mocks, disdains, he spills his own and writes across the walls in firm, defiant and repetitive script, “I am free.”

I have called him into my study and asked him to write the words I spoke. The blankness of his expression betrayed his worry that he could not comply. Then I gave him a scrip on which I wrote in the three languages he knows how to speak, including that of the Champion’s common tongue, “I will cut your bones out from your flesh while you yet live and abominate you” and he simply copied the shapes unquestioning, unsteadily, lines between his brows that I did not put there, and certainly with no more concern than that he could not determine why I put him to this task.

There are many lines upon his body not of my sanction. This grieves me; a fighting slave wears with use, for certain, but that he wore himself in another’s use I contest. I will write the Champion again for supper and my chatelaine can approach his entourage for more appropriate damages. An interesting mage, this Hawke, to have so deftly removed all competition from his realm, even to win the invidious templars to his cause; but I am no lord of Tevinter, no Archon to fear Hawke’s rise, I but one magister of many. Even at the worst the stories say he called for mercy, for every mage to surrender to his will, and he has already shown respect for the laws of property.

My property.

I yet trust my blood-mad child. For he was taken as a child the first time from the wilds, his adolescence enjoyed drunk with the blood of his kind and forgotten in the honour of his marking. He is still a child, I think, an innocent to guard my back and drink my poison, and innocents do not have masks to wear. I have set him again to keep my enemies off guard, and as always he is good at it, finding his own pleasure in their torment, finding ways to show his power and exalt mine own beside him. Before he left me, it was a startlingly shy pleasure he took, but now he has both ferocity and pride in his power, a dark mind to torment his lessors that even I marvel at. Above all, he has an understanding of the gut fear Tevinter’s magisters will always have for power that is not magic. He is my best, most beloved.

He does not remember either of his two lives, awake, and if I do not prompt him, he does not try. Yet I prompt him, often and with malice — deviousness in myself, I will admit, the perversion which enjoys his flinch as evidence of a power I wield over him. I should not have to prove myself over him, I know this, he gave himself to me the once, and gave himself to me again with wholeness of surrender. So easily I helped him forget the hurt he caused me by leaving, yet seemingly I cannot forget, and so I take pleasure in hurting him with what he cannot remember. I am perverse, I must acknowledge this. In blind denial, a mage will lose to his demons.

I find no fault in his service. Twice already since his return, he has spared me the poison in my cup, the lyrium in him preserving against all but the pain and shame of purging. He has spared me more blades in my back. His skill remains terrifying, the muscle memory persisting, all his actions now in unison with his mastery of the markings where before he held himself in battle with them. It is beautiful, he is beautiful, and I grieve that they poison him, too, as lyrium does all flesh and will, slower in some and slowest in him, but still inexorable.

Perhaps his night terrors are from the poisoning, lyrium bridging his lives as it bridges the Fade.

Today his nightmares took form through the day. He did not come to service that morning, and because he was favoured and ill with the waste of his own blood from the night prior, both I and my chatelaine went to his cell to see his wellbeing. She was hesitant, and I too plagued with misgiving but for her sake I held myself strong, righteous. There was no blood writing upon the walls this time, no wasteful entreaty in a language he cannot read or write to a worthless concept of freedom, no crumpled form ragged with self-inflicted wounds to the veins. The chatelaine took her ease at my side for that but I did not, for I could smell it upon the air, his lyrium spilled, my mouth watering and the part of me which touched the Fade and subdued demons, raging, hungering. My longing stirred to his pulse as we approached him, the veritable miasma pulling me closer.

I roused him from his nest with a brisk hand to his shoulder. He threw back his hair and looked upon me with eyes that did not know me. There was blood all upon his cheeks, his arms, all parts of his visible skin, tracing lines of drying blood writing I did not recognise across the lyrium. He had not writ upon the walls because he had spilled and writ his freedom upon himself.

Marvelling at the skill, with such a difficult medium, I asked him what he had done.

His voice was different, childish shapes and lisps. ‘It’s time, Keeper, you must see. I have purged myself and purified my skin. Refuse me not this time, I bid you.’

‘My child—’

‘Look not on my youth but on how many others remain who can stand against the slavers. I can lift the sword my father let fall! I will not ask again. I am ready for this fight.’

Gently I said, ‘And how old are you?’

‘I said what matter is that? I will not cry out when you mark me!’

‘It is important. Name your age.’

‘Eight! I am eight! Keeper, please, I must protect myself—’

I smoothed back his hair, fighting to hide my concern. His papers state he came into Minrathous’ corrals a few years older than he named, but he was unmarked at the time. His clan had not seen fit to gift him with the tattoos, the vallaslin upon which they placed such meaning; they had never granted him the adulthood, the visual acknowledgement of the tasks and rights and responsibilities he so craved. Only his years in the Archon’s tournament had awarded him that.

Only I had awarded him, at great expense, at the height of his success.

My chatelaine stirred. ‘Master, he raves, perhaps with fever. The healer could—’

‘The abomination will not be brought into my presence.’

He pushed away my hands when I spoke, his mouth working soundlessly upon the shape of a name, his eyes wide and pupils dark. ‘Abomin—’ His bloodied fingers pressed closed his eyes, wet shining upon his cheeks, ruining the skilful flaking patterns of his dreaming. ‘Eight. I chose to— I walked at his side, I did not kill him! I— Abominate. Eight. I ran and sold myself, I chose to come to— Hate. You.’ He made a sound deep in his throat, almost a growl, but when he spoke, his tone was full of wonder. ‘I hate you, Danarius.’

The words did not hurt me, but that he spoke them.

I backhanded him firmly and reminded him, ‘I hate you, Master.’

He panted, then fell into a fit and would not be touched. He has not risen from his nest even now, and for all he is best, beloved, I cannot allow this. I retreated in confusion to contemplate how best to act — my position is always best secured by careful forethought, and not the outright confrontation my fellow magisters would believe — but my writing this time has not helped order my mind. I do not permit floggings in my household for discipline, and I would not mark his skin at all if it could be helped. The scars clustering along his arms, the inside of his thighs where he cuts or bites or gouges himself, they disturb me as much as the scars of other battles.

No, there will be no floggings. Shed blood is for a strict purpose only, for a power not his to wield. I must teach him again I am not what he most fears. The abomination will serve its purpose.

  



End file.
